


Lasting Symptoms

by Silverdart



Series: Drabbles of the Lost Light [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Body Modification, Dark, Dark!Tailgate, Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Murder, Slash, Sparkeater!Tailgate, Vampirism, cybercrosis, sparkeater - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverdart/pseuds/Silverdart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovering from cybercrosis is not as simple as Ratchet makes it out to be. Cyclonus knows too well how thin the line between need and want can be, but he cannot deny his mate. He'll keep Tailgate's secret forever, even if HE kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something short and sweet showing Tailgate as a not so innocent minibot. The idea of cybercrosis turning him onto a sentient sparkeater was one that I found easy to work with :3

The corridors were silent on the slumbering Lost Light as Cyclonus walked glidingly, padding to the hab-suite he shared with the only problem on the ship that was his alone. All others who's problem it became didn't have to worry about it for long, they never lasted long enough to. As he approached the familiar door along the faintly illuminated wall, he eyed the shallow dents and scrapes lining the door frame. It caught the light slightly, exaggerating their shape and paint transfers. A hand had been here, gripping hard enough to buckle the reinforced metal. 

Cyclonus glared down at his pedes, then kneeled to swirl his claws through small puddles of shimmering energon. The mess was easily cleaned by the fabric the jet drew from his subspace, signifying its fresh nature. It was indicative of the minibot's necessary but no less crude nightly activities. 

The violet jet tensed, straightening his shoulders as he rose. The door had to be opened eventually. When would not change what happens in there. It would not erase the stains behind it. No, the carnage would remain. 

Cyclonus tried to convince himself the light tremor in his servos was nothing but the excess high-grade at Swerve's bar, where he drank to pass the time his mate needed to eat. He was not afraid. Not of Tailgate. 

The door slid smoothly open to reveal a faint glow within. As Cyclonus stepped in, he was hit with a comforting warmth that brought his vents to a low steady hum. The door slid shut and pinged as it locked firmly, locking the two in. Tailgate, his face mask removed in the privacy of their shared quarters, glanced up at the ex-Decepticon. He lowered the data pad in his energon soaked servo to rest on his stocky thighs and flashed a cheerful, pink tinted smile to his lover. 

"Welcome home Cyclonus." he purred, recently modified denta glinting in the lamp light. "Sorry I didn't grab you a cube before we hit the berth but I was a little... preoccupied." 

He flicked a nod towards the mess played open in the far right corner of the room, just under the large circular window. "Don't worry about him. He only screamed a little." Tailgate continued, swinging his crossed white legs around to dangle off the edge of the berth. Silver shined in Cyclonus' peripheral vision and his optics turned down to the spiked cable nudging playfully at his knee joint. 

He scowled and shuffled to the left, grimacing when his pede splashed into a large pool of slimy processed energon. "I advise you to stop before you have one less tentacle to restrain prey with." He warned, feeling no sympathy when the minibot pouted and withdrew. Cyclonus hated threatening Tailgate , but like this, after a rare meal, there was a fine, blurred line between teasing and instigating a hunt. 

It was both the beauty and the curse of surviving cybercrosis The victim's physical ability increased exponentially, but at a terrible psychological price. Tailgate had been surprisingly eager to accept his new state, revealing a sadistic side Cyclonus would have sworn was non-existent. The little mech had fooled everyone with his innocent veil, a trait that warded off all suspicious optics that drifted his way. 

Disappearances remained unsolved, with only Cyclonus knowing the truth. 

If it were any other mech Cyclonus would either kill the creature himself or have its identity revealed to the world. But he had made a promise at their bonding. A promise to protect his lover above all others, disregarding his morals. 

"Come to berth, Cyclonus." Tailgate yawned, wiping off his servos with a nearby cloth and curling up on the berth. "We'll clean up the mess next on-cycle. He's not going anywhere." 

Though he was in bed with a sentient sparkeater, Cyclonus couldn't help but press close and wrap around his love. 

They could deal with the corpse in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween is coming, so more Sparkeater!Tailgate and his guilty companion.

Cyclonus knew it wouldn’t be long before people started noticing the crewmembers who never made it home at night. It had been only a matter of time until a camera, a snooping glance, or a worried roommate would go digging into other mech’s business.

  
It didn’t help that one morning at the crack of the on-cycle, the ship was startled awake by Rewind screaming bloody murder. A very bloody murder with the mech tumbling out of a storage closet, landing in a pool of his own energon that spattered all over the minibot’s camera lens.

  
Shortly after the ship was sent into a state of lockdown, the damage done to the victim’s chest plates too similar to that found on the turbofoxes in the quest’s early orns. Mechs were quarantined to their quarters, with the command team doing regular patrols through the halls. This gave Red Alert time to pour himself over security footage, scouring for anything he could use.

  
Cyclonus knew he wouldn’t find anything, he had been careful in hiding the body in one of the security system’s few blind spots. Now that it had been found, that was one less hiding place for his mate’s leftovers.

  
The jet raised his optics from his datapad, unable to focus on interpreting the archaic glyphs. Instead, he glanced down in his lap, where Tailgate had snuggled in at the apex of his legs, back to his chest. The little bot hummed cheerily away, tapping idly away to the beat of Cyclonus’ sparkbeat.

  
Cyclonus couldn’t decide whether it was endearing or terrifying that Tailgate could hear his spark through thick plates clear enough to know its beat.

  
As time went on Cyclonus sat and stared, watching the silver tentacles roving idly up and down his lower arms. He tensed when one twined around his waist, its tip nipping at the thin wires in his seams. He let out a quiet warning growl, one that carried no heat. The tendril tightened in acknowledgment and stayed put, flexing in patterns that soothed and rubbed fondly at his lower back.

  
“Tailgate,” He rumbled. “You know we can’t go out. No amount of begging nor threats can get us out of this room. What are your fuel levels at?”  
Cyclonus had made sure to fill his tanks the moment the klaxon alarm and lockdown procedures had begun. They were given daily rations at the base of their door, which the jet stored away in a compartment under their berth. Tailgate couldn’t drink it, more for him he supposed.

  
The minibot wriggled uncomfortably, his pincers clicking in agitation. “A-About 32%...”

  
“32 % empty?”

  
“…32 % full.” He murmured quietly.

  
Cyclonus scowled, doing the math in his processor. At the rate Tailgate’s fuel consumption was going, soon the door wouldn’t be enough to hold back the little monster’s need to feed. Likewise, the investigation showed no signs of letting up any time soon.  
There was only one solution.

  
Cyclonus sighed deeply, shutting down his datapad and placing it on his berth-side table. He then brought his arms down and slipped them firmly around his mate’s middle. Tailgate hummed happily and snuggled into his warmth, glad that Cyclonus wasn’t yelling at him for his foolishness. Again.

  
Cyclonus shuffled forward, half-laying on the plush pillows he’d stacked behind him. He carefully unwound Tailgate’s tendrils, flipping the little sparkeater to lie chest to chest above him. He felt a light vibration against his lower chest, and raised an optic ridge questioningly.

  
“You’re hungry.” He stated, not bothering to ask.

  
Tailgate wriggled, tiny claws digging lightly into Cyclonus’ chest. His visor flickered sheepishly, and he tapped his fingers together.  
“I guess I am a little… peckish.” He chirped, optics brightening hopefully.

  
He hadn’t eaten in days, the hunger scratching at the back of his mind. He would never hurt Cyclonus, not ever, and his new coding agreed full heartedly. Mates were for love, support, sparklings, and a safe nest. Not a quick snack.

  
Cyclonus grunted and relaxed against the berth, adjusting his hold on his mate. He then dimmed his optics and tilted his helm to the side slowly. They both understood what he was offering, he had more than enough energon for the both of them. He watched fondly as Tailgate squealed, the little mech squabbling to sit up and scoot forward.

  
The two froze and tensed, Tailgate’s tentacles raising and clacking quietly in warning when the pair heard faint pede-steps approach their door. The pace never wavered and the individual passed by their door without pause. They waited a minute, listening to the mech walk further down the hallway and turn the corner. They eased back into the berth’s soft sheets Tailgate chittering melodically.

  
The blue sparkeater retracted his faceplate and pressed soft joyful pecks to Cyclonus’ lips, smile stretching his own. Cyclonus hummed approvingly, grunting when Tailgate gave light teasing nips to his lips. He returned the love bites, both steadily getting more heated and aggressive.

  
Cyclonus growled when Tailgate moved on, trailing warm kisses along the arches of his cheeks and down the sides of his helm. One servo came up to pet affectionately at his horn, the other rubbing softly on his chest. The purple mech felt a tentative touch to his codpiece, and eyed the tendrils snaking around his thighs to prod teasingly at his panel’s seams. The jet’s thrusters rumbled contently.

  
He tenses slightly when his mate’s lips moved to run warily up and down the cables of his throat, but when the sparkeater nuzzled his helm firmly in the crook of his neck he relaxed. Butterfly kisses gave way to tentative licks and suckles before his mate focused his attention on the thickest of the cables. He kept calm and shuttered at the heat pooling in his lower body when he felt the light pierce of petite needle denta plunging into his energon lines.

  
He had convinced himself that the act wasn’t unlike how the siphonists fed and showed each other trust in the slums of Kaon and Rodion, but he knew this need ran deeper than the thrill. He ran his own clawed servos up and down Tailgate’s hood soothingly, one moving lower to cup his aft lightly. He felt Tailgate grin, before the pull of Tailgate’s suckling made him feel light-headed.

  
Tailgate moaned, optics growing hazy as the sweet taste of his mate filled his intake. He drank his fill slowly, grinding down on Cyclonus’ belly when he began to heat. He groaned, the vibrations causing a noise reminiscent of a hiss from his mate. His HUD pinged joyfully at him and he carefully pulled away, licking away drops of energon that had escaped and soothing the sting of the two small holes.

  
Cyclonus sighed and slumped, the weak paralytic venom of Tailgate’s denta loosening his cables. Tailgate’s tendril finally succeeded in teasing his panel open, spike pressurizing quickly after. Tailgate’s face entered his field of vision and he stared at his mate’s energon stained smile. He looked so happy.

  
Raising sensuously to all fours the sparkeater crawled slowly backwards to bring himself level to Cyclonus’s pelvis, tanks sated but optics still hungry. Cyclonus’ vents hitched and he clutched the berth sheets firmly in his fisted servos.  
Tailgate giggled and let a huff of air tease over his sensors.

  
“I think I’m ready for the main course now, Cyclonus.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "speaking"  
> :Comm. speak:  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Turnabout sighed contently, swirling the concoction Swerve had mixed for him on the fly. He dimmed his optics and swung back one last fizzy mouthful, tapping the shot glass lightly on the bar top. With an in-vent and a bright, grin accompanied wave to his friend Trickshot, he slowly eased himself from his stool and stood on shaky pedes.

“G’night Swerve,” He rasped. “D’un work too hard, eh?”

Swerve grinned wide, hands already wiping down his dirtied glass. “Alright Turn, y’sure you’ll be okay walking home?”

Turnabout huffed. “Don’t worry ‘bout it Swervy, I can handle it. I’m a big bot now, didn’t ya hear?”

Swerve laughed, visor brightening. “Yeah Turn, I heard. Have a good night mech.”

He shook his helm and refocused his optics when the bots mingling in his way began to spark with static. He grunted and slurred out a quick apology when he nearly ran over that minibot who kept recording things. The little mech let out a startled squawk, and was dragged behind a taller mech who’ visor narrowed angrily in Turnabout’s direction. Turnabout raised his hands in surrender and carefully staggered his way through the thin crowd finally making it to the exit. The door slid open smoothly, welcoming him into the relatively quiet hallway.

Turnabout groaned and shuffled his way through corridors and around corners, stopping and leaning against the ship’s hull for a moment whenever his gyroscope fell out of alignment. Eventually, he found the door to his quarters and jabbed his pass code into the number pad with shaky fingers. He didn’t bother switching his lights on, barely finding the coordination to lock his door before quite literally falling into his berth and cuddling up under his covers. He’d always had a thing for fabric, its softness on his chassis. With a content rumble, he slowly fell into recharge, world fading away.

Turnabout wasn’t sure what it was that initially jumpstarted his processors. He wasn’t sure if it was the smooth yet firm bands of soft metals wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Or perhaps it was the pinch of small hooks biting into the sides of his chest plates. Either way, as Turnabout returned to reality, it was not with the dull throb of a hangover, but the roar of processor lag that blurred the already unfocused red light of a glowing visor hovering over him.

“Sweeerrrveeee…?” He droned, his faceplates as numb as the rest of his unresponsive frame.

He faintly felt a weight shift on his thighs, and dark plating that could have been white under proper lighting entered his view. Turnabout’s vents hitched as his processors finally caught up with the situation, his optics widening. He tried wiggling his arms out of their restraints, but felt panic begin creeping in when the continued to just lie there. It was as if his frame had given up on him, left him alone in the dark.

Well, not entirely alone.

“Nah, I’m not Swerve, but I saw you talking to him earlier at the bar! Was it a good conversation, you looked like you were enjoying yourself!”

Turnabout gurgled in protest. He didn’t recognize the cheerful, slightly fast-speaking voice from the mech above him. But Primus damn him if he cared who was in his room, only that they should _not_ be in here, and he should _not_ feel this scared. It was like his room’s ventilation had been blocked, the cold of space creeping into his seams.

“It’s nice to get out every once in a while, let off some steam you know?” The small mech perched in his waist giggled to himself, leaning forward to rest his chin in his talon-tipped hands. “What am I saying, of course you do! You really are a party animal, so I’ve heard! But,” He ticked in a disapproving manner. His visor darkened, and Turnabout realized he couldn’t feel an EM field from the mech. “Too much of a good thing can become a bad thing. A _really_ bad thing.”

Turnabout whimpered, vocalizer still unresponsive as he managed to pull weakly on the straps. He tried to access his comm., but found it too disabled. The longer the small crazy mech draped over him talked, the more time he had to hack his way around the block and get help. In an effort to keep the intruder talking, Turnabout nodded in agreeance.

The little mech seemed to pout as he glanced away. “You sound just like my mate, he doesn't think a good thing can stay good either. I mean come on, there’s more than one way to do something. Plenty of ways to enjoy yourself. Everyone has a hobby! Yours, it seems, is drinking every last mix Swerve can cook up! Mine,”

He scooted forward, small claws tickling the wires of his left wrist and neck. “Well sometimes I think I have a bad habit of eating too much junk food. My mate says it’s not good for me, but I can’t help it.”

Turnabout worked his malware programs fitfully, monitoring his progress. 87% complete, just a few more moments and he could call for help. He could call for Trickshot.

The little mech leaned up and dug around inside his subspace, humming until he retrieved a small stylus sized tool with a cheer of victory. Turnabout’s spark swelled and his optics dilated as wide as they could. His struggled reignited with as much effort as he could muster, but still his frame only managed the feeblest of tugs. He must have been drugged. Was it as the bar? When he was asleep? It didn’t really matter at this point.

The small mech hummed a slow and steady tune as he pressed the clean blade of a scalpel he’d nicked from the med bay to Turnabout’s wrists. He carefully drew his hand back, and Turnabout nearly purged at the shudder of bliss his bubbling energon caused. Turnabout shuttered his optics, redirection all his efforts to removing the block on his comms. 93%.

He did not have the energy to turn his helm, to watch a faceplate retract and lower plush lips to his lines. He did however hear the quiet moan, and felt the painful suckling on his energon lines. 97%.

The mech sighed and sat up, raising a hand to wipe away the smudges of pink on his cheeks. “High-grade doesn't cut it for me anymore.” It whispered, back plates rearranging to let twin tendrils snake from between his seams. The appendages slunk soundlessly towards the sides of Turnabouts helm, claspers pinning it against the berth so he couldn’t move. 99%

“I’m really sorry about this Turnabout. I… please understand I wouldn’t do this unless I have to! It’s not personal! I… I’m just so hungry, I’m starving! And it's not just me I have to worry about now! I’ve got a mate, my life is finally turning around! You, well, you always were kind of a loner. So I thought you might not mind.”

The creature lay flush against his chest, faceplates nuzzled into the cables of Turnabout’s neck. “I promise, it won’t hurt a bit. You can let go, you can be happy in the Well! I know you can! Primus’ll take care of you.” He whispered encouragingly.

Turnabout choked out a sob, gasping at his programs finally broke down the malicious block. His spark flickered in terror and he threw out a frantic message to Trickshot.

:Trick! TRICK please pick up, PLEASE PICK UP! Please, please, please, please!:

He heard a confused and sleepy murmur on the other line. :Turnabout? Turn, it’s like two cycles to the on-shift, what the Pit do you want?:

Turnabout whimpered, he could feel fangs grazing the sides of his neck as the small creature continued to babble sweet nothings into his audio.

:Trick, oh Primus please help me, he’s on me! He’s draining me! Call Magnus, call Drift, call anybody!:

:Turn, are you still drunk? I told you to lay off that stuff a bit, I take it you didn’t listen, did you?:

Turnabout let out an agonized rasp when the fangs dug in and pierced his lines, his processors going numb. He could feel himself fading away and coolant dripped from his optics.

:Trick, I-I ain’t lyin’, I swear! Please help, I can’t see, I can’t see anymore!:

:Turn, you’re starting to scare me, hun. What’s going ? Turn… Turnabout are you there? Turnabout, did you fall asleep again?...I-I’ll be over soon to come check on you, alright? I told you before love, you drink too much. I’ll be there soon. Love you babe...:

The next morning Trickshot sat hunched over a bedbay berth, fat drops of coolant dripping from his optics. He held Turnabout’s limp but blessedly warm servo tightly between his own. Every so often he pressed a gentle kiss to Turnabout’s knuckles, and ran his fingers down the sharp angles of his right arm.

After the abrupt end to the call he had been so worried he rushed straight over to Turnabout’s quarters. They had only been courting a few stellar cycles, but this was unusual behavior, even for Turn. He’d sounded so scared, terrified. Nobody else was in the room when Trickshot hacked his way in, immediately calling for the medics and trying his best to seal up the worst of the cuts. There had been energon everywhere, it looked like a disposable recycling plant. He had managed to burn off three of the four metal restraints when the medics arrived and shoved him out of their way and into the hall.

A good few cycles of shaking in the waiting room and a quiet questioning session with the command staff and orange psychiatrist, Rung was his name, led to him finally being allowed to see his court mate. Ratchet has spoken to him personally about the injuries, had said Turnabout was lucky to be alive. Trickshot asked him if the marks matched those found on the dead mech found in a storage closet a while back. Ratchet didn’t answer.

That same orn, martial law was declared on the ship, and there was talk of quarters being searched in attempts to find trophies, energon samples, _anything_ , to link somebody to the crimes.

Trickshot smiled bitterly to himself, lips wavering. At least Turnabout couldn’t drink anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate can only avoid the medical staff so long.

Though the lights were a cheerful pink and blue neon, the sharp shadows they cast into the corners didn’t help the carefully covered nervousness shivering through most of Swerve’s customers. Since the incident with Turnabout, command had clamped down on the amount of highgrade his costumers could purchase. They said they didn’t want to put people in a state of mind Rung described as ‘vulnerable’. 

Swerve guessed he could agree with that, despite the giant bite it ripped out of his business. The number of mechs didn’t actually thin out, but they seemed to hang out in his bar during free hours to be around others more than drown their fear to the bottom of his glasses. He supposed they felt better with others, not alone. Safety in numbers. Needless to say, Swerve was a little bit more insistent convincing Skids to stay behind just another minute after closing, so they could walk together right before curfew. 

He sighed, glancing up to the circular center table. His customary grin had disappeared but he grew a small grin as he watched his friend wave his hands around, clearly telling a very riveting story. Cyclonus held his chin in his servo, arm leaning on the tabletop with a blank expression. Swerve wondered if he was in recharge, he wouldn’t be the first to fall asleep to Tailgate’s babble. Skids joked that they should call him ‘Bluestreak’ from now on.  
Swerve’s thoughts and the conversations of the bar were overcome by a loud blare, the klaxon alarms flashing red for a moment before falling silent. Since the curfew had been instated, there were two warnings for the crew, a few joor before all crew were restrained to their quarters. The only mechs allowed out after that were command, or mechs with an escort. 

Swerve sighed and hopped down from his stool, watching Tailgate and Cyclonus walk out, trailed by half a dozen other mechs. Time to go home for the night. 

~*~*~*~ 

“Red Alert nearly found out. Again. No matter how many times I tell you, it’s almost as if you want to be found out, Tailgate. Is that true, or are you just being incompetent?” 

Tailgate whined, shoulders slumping and legs swinging grumpily. “I’m not stupid Cyclonus, I know what I’m doing now! I didn’t lose control at all last time! At least I think I didn’t…” He trailed off with uncertainty. 

Cyclonus paced slowly in front of the berth, arms crossed across his chest. It hadn’t been difficult for him to figure out why the security director had glitched half a dozen times since the body in the closet. 

He had no leads, none. At least not yet. He would if Tailgate pulled another stunt like Turnabout, the small fool making no effort to clean up, only just making the window in the camera records for him to slip through the hallways unseen. If Red Alert ever found that glitch in the programming, the nanoklik that Tailgate needed to hide in the shadows, and they’d have to rethink their feeding strategy. 

Cyclonus had hoped that with their training together, Tailgate may be able to feed without killing. To sneak in under cover of darkness, take a quick drink, then escape through the air vents he could squeeze himself into. With him, the small mech could easily withdraw. Others, not so easily.

He supposed it was a good sign that Tailgate stopped himself from tearing Turnabout’s spark from his body, but when the mech woke up, who knows what he’ll remember. They may have to do a bit of ‘damage control’ later. With command watching anyone and everyone, that would be impossible. At least, as long as mechs kept dying. 

“You have not answered my question, Tailgate.” He rumbled. 

“Yes I have! Neither! You’re asking me to be who I was before, I CAN’T!” The small sparkeater was shaking now, upset, visor beginning to spark “It’s like asking you to stop flying, stop venting! I-I don’t want that for you, so why d you want that for me?” 

Cyclonus growled, taking his next turn harder that his hips really should have. “I haven’t flown for as long as you have been this. I do not think you realize just how serious any of this is. I begin to question if you have any control over yourself at all. You do not have to be who you were; I’m not even asking you to be! I am asking that you try to make an effort, something I haven’t seen much of.” 

Coolant began to drip from under the bottom edge of the visor, and Tailgate sniffled. His servos were clenched into fists on the padding of the berth, frame shrinking away from the anger rolling off his mate in waves. 

“I-I am trying. I am. But, oh- you don’t get it! You don’t feel what I do, no matter what you say! I f-feel like I want to eat, I want to hurt people! T-that’s not me! That’s not who I am! I don’t do it for fun, I do it because I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die, n-not now!” His rambling degenerated into quick venting. Cyclonus sighed, recognizing the start of a panic attack. 

He walked over, sitting down on the berth and gathering the quivering monster into his lap. Tailgate immediately burrowed into his chest, rubbing his faceplates against the metal as he sobbed. Cyclonus’ arms secured him to his frame, and he stood to cradle his mate and continue his circling. 

“As I stated before, I am not asking you to be perfect, you are imperfect by nature. I do not hold that against you, as nobody is perfect. I am just asking you to try, we can stop this hiding, skulking like criminals in the night. I know that I am not enough, and I never will be. You need diversity in food, but your prey are still mecha. They have their own lives, problems, aspirations. If you continue on this path, it is not out of necessity, it is murder, Tailgate. Do you understand?” 

Tailgate’s vents shuddered as he calmed down, whimpering. He sniffled, running a servo across his face. “I Un-hick! Understand, Cyclonus, I do. I p-promise, I’ll try harder, I won’t give up. Just p-please, d-d-don’t leave me. Please don’t!” 

Cyclonus shushed him, petting his back. One panic attack was enough. He spent a while longer walking, sitting every once and a while to allow Tailgate to collect himself. He received a ping, a reminder of Tailgate’s appointment. 

“We have a few kliks before we must leave for the medical bay. We must go, I cannot re-schedule another time, they will suspect we are avoiding them.” He’d told Ratchet Tailgate had been nervous to be back in a med-bay so soon, but when you’ve been stabbed with an ancient sword though the spark medics were insistent. 

“I’m scared. Ratch will notice my, er, appendages. And a few other things. I don’t… we can’t explain a second tank, Cyclonus.” Tailgate whispered. 

“I have a plan, though I’m not sure if a doctor as skilled as Ratchet will believe it for long.”  
They sat in silence, Tailgate running his servo gently down Cyclonus’ horns to calm the lingering anger in his field. A knock at their door ushers them up, Tailgate following Cyclonus out into the hall where Ultra Magnus waited. The second in command led them through empty corridors and they entered the medical bay with an access code. Anywhere that had items that could be used as a weapon was locked down to the highest restriction level. 

First Aid was tinkering with a cleaning drone, not much else to do, when they entered. He placed his probe down and greeted the three with a slightly less enthusiastic ‘hello’ than usual. Ultra Magnus nodded and moved to stand at attention near the main entrance. Cyclonus dipped his helm in greeting, Tailgate chirping a greeting from behind his waist. First Aid shepherded the pair into Examination Room 1, padding away with a quick “Ratchet will be with you in a moment!”

Tailgate hopped up onto the berth, legs swinging, humming an old tune Cyclonus had yet to teach him the lyrics to. Cyclonus stood beside him, tension in his every cable. They looked at each other, and Tailgate’s visor brightened. ‘I’ll be okay’, that look said. 

Their stare broke when Ratchet walked in, datapad held loosely in his left servo. “Right then,” he started. “Who’s idea was it to postpone the last appointment? Speak now, I will find out either way and you won’t like how I find out.”

“I did.” Cyclonus answered. 

“Thank you. Don’t do it again. EVER.” Ratchet grumbled. “When you’re dying and a crazy mech stabs you on a hunch, you listen to your doctor. If I want to see you in an orn, You’re in here in an orn.” He stepped over to his instruments, proceeding to hook up the little mech. “Now, today is all about looking at the side effects of your unexpected save. We’re going to do a physical and get readings of your systems. Since we’re into curfew, there’s no need to rush.”

Exactly what Cyclonus didn’t want to hear. 

The physical went by fairly quickly, Tailgate being asked to contort in to numerous positions, press with all his strength against Ratchet’s locked servos, and retract his mask. Cyclonus resisted the urge to shuffle, Ratchet took an awful long time examining the inside of Tailgate’s intake. His face was set in a scowl, but it was clear there was an edge of confusion to his optics. 

Ratchet examined Tailgate’s seams and contours, noticing there were hairline seams he swore weren’t there before. He prodded them, but was unable to get them to flair open, even after telling Tailgate numerous times to ‘calm the frag down’. It raised some flags in Ratchet’s processor, and he made a not of them on his pad before moving on. 

He moved on to system scans, again receiving feedback that made little to no sense. Tailgate was no war build, so why did he have high tension cabling in his back? His cogs and pendulums had been updated upon his repair after the cycbercrosis, but the replacements shouldn’t have integrated as fast as they did. When he ran a full system scan, he paused, and had to fight to keep his expression neutral. It was wrong, so so wrong. What… what in Primus’ name were those? There were several hidden compartments in Tailgate’s back, adjacent to the seams that refused to open. Thick cables were tightly coiled in each, the scan showing a negative of their structure similar to an organic x-ray. Yet another note. At this point he was gong to need another datapad. 

A round of deep spark scans later, and the medic had all the data he needed. “Alright,” he said, keeping a tremor from his his voice. “You’re all set, Ultra Magnus is waiting outside to take you back to your room.” 

Tailgate clapped his servos happily, hopping off the berth to head for the door. He slowed and looked back at Cyclonus, waiting. Ratchet cleared his vocalizer and set down his pad. “Tailgate, why don’t you go wait outside with Magnus for a moment. I want to check Cyclonus’ new horn, make sure it’s set properly.” 

Tailgate froze, visor brightening as he locked optics with Cyclonus. His fingers twitched and he gave a nervous laugh. “In that case I’ll stay here. I want to see if my hard work paid off, after all!” 

Ratchet stiffened and his request deepened into an order. “There are some more personal questions I’d like to ask him while he’s here. Go on now, give Magnus some company. Away with you.” 

Tailgate’s plating twitched violently, but he complied. “S-see you in a minute. He said quietly, then left, closing the door behind him. 

Cyclonus growled quietly, almost silent, before turning his burning gaze to Ratchet. “You know full well my horn is fine, what is this really about, medic?” 

Ratchet noted his seriousness, and flipped through a few images on the datapad, settling on a full frame scan. He handed the pad to the jet, who accepted it and stared hard at what it showed. His tanks dropped, but he refused to let it show. “This is Tailgate, yes? What am I supposed to see here?”

“There are unusual structures and formations developed in Tailgate’s frame. For example, you must have noticed by now that his denta are slowly being replaced by fangs not unlike your own. And his back, there are cables that have no right in being there, I certainly didn’t put them there. Questions is, if it wasn’t me, how did they get there?” 

“What makes you think I would know, I have very little knowledge on rare medical disorders.”

“That may be so, however you are closer to Tailgate than anyone else. If you’ve noticed anything strange with his behavior, it is your duty to share the details. Especially since the killing began. So spill, what’s wrong with him?”

Cyclonus sighed deeply, feinting the worried friend while he sorted out his explanation in his helm. “Fine, you are correct, the little one has changed since I saved his spark. I believe it was the very act of saving him, that my own spark was so finely in tune with his, that he is beginning to take on features more typical of a war frame. Or, if you want to be factionist in description, similar in appearance to a Decepticon.” 

Ratchet stared. “His coding was in shambled near the end, there were holes in his programming that appear filled. Are you claiming that the link with the sword took your code… turned you into a makeshift patch?” 

 

“Yes, that is my best guess as to why the changes are occurring to his frame.”

Ratchet hummed. “That’s the answer you’re going for, huh? Fine, I’ll organize another appointment soon for you both. If this is the case, then there’s a very good chance that there could be a clash in priority codes. The last thing he needs is a system-wide glitch. I’ll organize to have Chromedome take a look at the two of you. If you were indeed a patch, he’ll need you as a base to compare to.” 

Cyclonus conceded, then turned without a word to the door. He left the room, grasping Tailgate’s arm as he went and dragging him towards the exit. “We’re finished here Magnus. Please escort us back to our quarters.” 

The second in command’s optics narrowed, but he guided the two into the hallway and out of sight. Ratchet watched them leave, glare following the unlikely pair. He glowered, picking up the datapad from the examination room and heading straight to his office. He dropped into his seat, and activated his private comm. “Coding patch my aft. Nothing short of a reprogramming could do that.” 

"First Aid, I need you in my office immediately, comm. the command staff and tell them to report to the medbay as soon as the curfew has lifted. Chromedome will meet you here. There’s been a… development that may be relevant to the case.”


End file.
